


NOT your Babysitter...

by Punk_in_Docs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Avengers (Film), Babysitting, Boats and Ships, F/M, Games, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Pirates, Role-Playing Game, Sherlock Interacting with Children, chocolate cake, dressing up, fiance's, young kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock, my darling, I love you and for all your admirable qualities, I wouldn’t have thought ‘child friendly’ is among the list of them…”</p>
<p>“You’ll be eating your words pretty soon…”</p>
<p>He promised, swaying closer to me and glaring through a smirk.</p>
<p>“Oh will I?”</p>
<p>I counteracted. Smiling flirtingly back at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NOT your Babysitter...

 

 

Libby Jameson, or, as she _should_ now be known, Libby Holmes ( _pending…_ ) rubbed her eyes wearily and summoned the last fragments of her infinite spectrum of patience and tolerance.  
   
It was an abominable hour on a Monday morning, sunlight had barely whisked away the heavy curtain of night on the street, and yet, she found herself huddled into a grey dressing gown and black silk pyjamas on her doorstep, shuffling her feet in old threadbare ugg boots. Very much awake, very much wanting to go back to bed for an hour or two, and very much _annoyed…_  
   
A woman like Libby had a large and ever growing ensemble of friends. Not surprisingly, she was as animated and as lovable as a dewy eyed Disney character. Women wanted to be like her, with her lovely warm smile, and her easy blue eyes. Men wanted to be around her, with her good natured humour, and body that was not too shabby to look at. Small children and the elderly alike, fell in love with her instantly the moment she opened her perfect lips and smiled. She was loving, warm, friendly and an all-round wonderful person. Had Sherlock not been completely besotted with her, he would’ve sworn she was drawn in an animation studio by Walt Disney.  
   
And if there was one thing Libby couldn’t do, it was turn someone out if they came to her for a favour. Bar anything abnormal or dangerous and she would do it.  
   
Even if that meant looking after her Friends seven year old for the day…  
   
As her friend was a single parent and had to dash off to a conference for a few odd hours, and was gabbling on and on about how grateful she was and how she would be repaid in earnest for her troubles, Libby fought to bite back a yawn as aforementioned seven year old, stared unblinking at her with huge blue eyes.  
   
Libby felt pretty downhearted for the kid in that moment, The Father she had learned – with plenty of tears one night over a bottle of wine – had ran off chasing after a bit of skirt as soon as the kid, Max, could walk. And it wasn’t the easiest thing for a single, 28 year old hairdresser to struggle along with a kid on the ebb and flow of unsure wages, so, they were now living back with grandma in a 2 bedroom in Portobello.  
   
She looked down at the little boy, with swirls and swirls of dark curly brown hair that sat like a ruffled crown on his head, with the big big eyes that every child seemed to have, a veritable swimming pool of light blue irises blinked unemotionally back at her. Assessing the yawning pyjama clad stranger in front of him.  
   
And, soon. All too soon. The Mother had thanked her once more, before blowing Max a kiss, hopping into a cab and speeding away.  
Leaving Libby and Max stood in silence watching her disappear.  
   
Libby looked down at Max again, wrapping her dressing gown further around her to ward off the cold. Max shuffled his feet on the doorstep, readjusting his Avengers backpack on his shoulders, scuffing one ruined tip of scruffy converse against the other foot.  
   
Libby moved to smile warmly at him and usher him inside, getting him out of the cold and into the warmth.  
   
As he ascended the stairs, holding onto the banister in a very genteel way, slowly taking the steps one by one, he sought to ask Libby a question or two, in a very tiny, and unsure voice.  
   
“Are you a Doctor?”  
   
Libby smiled a bright smile that could melt ice. “Yes, I am.”  
   
“You don’t cut people up do you?”  
   
“No. No. I don’t. I, help them get better when they have the sniffles, or if they have a funny tummy or things like that…”  
   
She explained lovingly, hearing Max sigh in disappointment, in a way only a seven year old could.  
   
“That’s a shame. Cutting people up sounds much more fun.”  
   
Libby smiled, praying she didn’t just agree to babysit Damien from the Omen. She already had one giant sulky man child slash psycho in the flat, and she didn’t need another…  
   
The two of them trudged – wearily – up the stairs and into the warm living room. Max silently surveying everything new and foreign that was presented to him in the odd messy room.  
   
“Are you hungry max? Do you want breakfast or something…? I’m sure we have something yummy in the cupboards we can find...” Libby said aloud, rifling - rather carefully – through the kitchen cupboards. This was harder than it should have been as Sherlock had been practicing rigging and disarming booby traps on the cupboards during the week and there was always a chance that he had forgotten one. John had already had a close shave yesterday when he went looking for the pasta and had nearly had his eyes taken out by a bizarre contraption involving a barbeque fork on a spring. Libby escaped narrowly, ducking just in time as a fork was catapulted over her head as she searched for teabags yesterday... Living with Sherlock was really shaping up to help improve her reflexes.  
   
Max shook his head, having sat in the middle of Sherlock’s large leather armchair. Swinging his legs back and forth and bracing his arms far away on the armrests. Looking with unhinged interest and slight caution at the skull on the mantelpiece.  
   
“Mummy and me didn’t have breakfast this morning.” He explained sadly.  
   
Libby yanked open the fridge, careful to slide the gruesome looking jar of eyeballs out of Max’s eyesight, lest he mention to his mother that Libby has human eyeballs sitting casually in her fridge…  
   
She spied the dozen or so eggs shoved to the back, along with the in date bread on the side that John must’ve bought yesterday – upon managing to get unharmed to the pasta to find it had been out of date since 1993 – and a brilliant calculation formed in her head that she knew any seven year old would be happy about.  
   
“Eggs and Soldiers sound ok to you?” She smiled.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
~ ~ ~  
   
   
   
   
   
Not ten minutes later, Libby and Max were sat contentedly around the kitchen table, noisily crunching on toast – with marmite, they both found they had a fondness for it – and eating boiled eggs. And despite Max’s shy demeanour, Libby had coaxed him out of a laugh or two, and he sat smiling because of it.  
   
And, Libby had found, that often to be liked by kids, you had to do something which, by their definition, made you fun and outstanding. Hence why Libby asked the seven year old with marmite on his chin the next question…  
   
“So Max. Are there any things your mum doesn’t let you do?”  
   
The seven year old gaped up at the smiling doctor in amazement, seeing her smile widen as he struggled to articulate words. The unthinkable notion that an adult would ask him what he wasn’t allowed to do was nearly a cause for awed panic.  
   
“She doesn’t let me, drink fizzy drinks…”  
   
“Okay. Good. What else?”  
   
“Um. She doesn’t cook cakes with me, Gran does. But they’re boring lemon cakes that I don’t like very much…”  
   
“Okay, I see. So What would you say, if we went and got lots and lots of coke, and chocolate and crisps, and lots of yummy chocolate cake mix to bake, aswell as The Avengers film on DVD for us to watch?...”  
   
Libby’s smile grew wider as she saw the seven years olds face light up with a megawatt smile.  
   
After her and Max had a very fun time racing around their local supermarket with a trolley, setting a record time of ten minutes as they whizzed around the shop so fast Libby was surprised she didn’t feel the effects of G-force at work, they rounded up plenty of crisps, chocolate, sweets and other various sugar filled things that cannot be safe – or legally advisable – for consumption by a seven year old. When they compacted their overstuffed trolley to the checkout, the frumpy old woman – who looked like an extra from the black swamp, or a not so distant relation to jabba the hut – tutted and frowned at them, this only sought to increase their giggling all the more. Max had to clamp his hands over his mouth as Libby whispered a joke into his ear that made him howl with giddy laughter. Finally, laden down with bags and bags of unhealthy goodness, she and Max caught a cab back to 221b to demolish their goods. Max couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun with a grown up…  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
~ ~ ~   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
“So. Who’s your favourite Avenger?”  
Libby asked Max as they stood side by side at the kitchen table, Max having to stand on a kitchen chair to equalise their height, and for him to be able to be within reach of the mixing bowls, Libby had found an old unworn shirt of Sherlock’s to drape Max in so he didn’t get his shirt dirty. The Aforesaid table looked like a Betty Crocker swamp. Flour lay scattered about the surface, aswell as used kitchen utensils that were covered in chocolate cake mix. Libby had to borrow an old apron from Mrs Hudson, as their own had acid burned holes in it. She had rolled her sleeves up and was whisking the thick gloopy cake batter, and Max messily shifted flour into another bowl. Her hair was swept from her face, her fringe defying restraint and escaping down her forehead, whilst there was a touch of flour smeared on her cheek, making her, with her flushed face (due to the heat of the oven where three trays of chocolate cookies sat sizzling) look like a pantomime dame had tried to apply her make up for her. Max himself was no better, his long sleeved hung off his little arms in the large shirt, and his unruly curly hair now had sweeps of white in it from the flour, making him look not unlike a miniature Sweeney Todd. Libby also noticed how there was chocolate cake mix on his left cheek where he had sampled a bit without thinking she noticed.  
   
“My favourite Avenger would have to be Thor. He’s so powerful, and he can summon thunder AND Mjolnir is the only weapon strong enough to beat the hulk… And if you can beat the hulk, that’s pretty cool…”  
   
He gabbled excitedly. Sifting more vigorously as his excitement grew…  
   
“Ahaaa. See. Now my favourite is Loki….” Libby cackled, grinning manically.  
   
Max’ mouth must’ve hit the floor.  
   
“But he’s evil!!!?!?”  
   
He fairly yelped.  
   
“AhAAa. But Villains are the best! They have all the FUN!!!......”  
   
Libby explained, placing her bowl down and tickling Max on the tummy, which made him squeal and laugh with delight. Just before a raging tickle match could ensue, or, a food fight in their case. The oven beeped to let them both know that the cookies were baked.  
   
Abandoning tickling the giggling seven year old, Libby wandered over to the oven, and pulled it open to be hit with a wall of heat, and the glorious scent of rich warm chocolate.  
She slid he trays out and left them to cool. Turning back to help Max finish their chocolate cake. Which, once was completed, she slid into the oven and turned to Max as he wiped gooey chocolately hands down the once pristine shirt front.  
“Ever made a pillow fort?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in question.  
   
   
   
   
   
An hour or two later, as the Avengers blared on through the action packed blockbuster that it was. Max lay sprawled asleep on or, technically, in, the pillow fort he and Libby had made. The wreckage of their grazing and snacking lay strewn around them, empty cans of coke and Fanta, aswell as crisp packets and numerous chocolate wrappers, aswell as a few slices of their too chocolately chocolate devil cake and a few double triple chocolate cookies they made earlier, safe to say, Max was now firmly settled into a sugar coma, as a deadweight of small skinny limbs on the floor, with a few errant chocolate crumbs littered around his mouth. Libby was too feeling the weighty effects of the endless amounts of sugar and chocolate she and Max had consumed. Heaving herself up, she rounded up the stray wrappers as best she could and shoved them in the bin, shuffling into the kitchen quietly so as not to wake Max, groaning as she binned the rubbish and moved to clear up some of the mess they had made earlier.  
   
She barely heard the door go before she sensed a presence in the kitchen doorway, staring into her back. Burning holes onto her skin.  
She turned to see Sherlock stood, whipping off his gloves. Looking intently at her. With an expression akin to subdued alarm on his handsome features.  
   
“There’s a small child asleep in the living room…”  
   
He grumbled, un-amusedly.  
   
“Oh, yeah, that’s um, he belongs to me.”  
   
Libby smiled, drying a dish with her back turned to him.  
   
Sherlock peered through from the kitchen to the lounge, seeing the sleeping kid hadn’t moved a muscle, a loud and violent sounding film pounding from the TV speakers.  
“How long have I been gone?”  
   
He asked, humorously.  
   
“Oh ha ha...”  
   
Libby laughed, placing a mixing bowl back where it belonged.  
   
Sherlock moved into the kitchen, an odd squeaking sound coming from him as he moved.  
   
Libby turned to face him, seeing him stood in the light, rather than the dingy hallway confirmed her suspicions.  
   
Sherlock Holmes was dripping wet. And covered in soap suds. His clothes were plastered to his skinny frame and he stood dripping in the middle of the kitchen, peering down at the love of his life through his sodden fringe.  
   
 "I ran through a car wash." He explained, calmly, and not, he suspected, for the last time.  
  
  
  
Libby stood unmoving facing him. Her eyes closing despairingly, before she asked the question again.  
   
" _Why?_ "  
  
  
  
"Chasing a suspect."  
  
  
  
"And it didn't occur to you to go _around_ the car wash instead of through it?" She asked forthrightly  
   
Then Libby remembered John telling her this was a man who, on the very night they met, got hit by a car whilst chasing a suspect. Sherlock may have been incredibly intelligent but the tunnel vision he got when a suspect was in sight often led him to do chronically stupid things. Rather like running through an operational car wash . . .  
  
  
  
"Well, he went through it too. Just as well he did, he got soap in his eyes, couldn't see and ran headlong into a wall. It’s how I caught up with him."  
   
Sherlock said, absent-mindedly wringing his scarf out, seemingly not caring that he was getting the floor and Libby's feet wet.  
  
  
  
She shook her head hopelessly.  
   
"Look just . . . Go and have a shower or at least scrape the wax out of your hair and change your clothes, you look like you’ve had a run in with a washing machine…”  
   
Sherlock ran a hand through his damp curls, smothering them to his head.  
   
“How did you get roped into babysitting?”  
   
Sherlock asked with an all too happy smile.  
   
“For a friend, she’s a single parent, and she needed a hand, besides, Max has been no trouble…”  
   
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking once more through to the sleeping seven year old.  
   
“I’ll give you a hand if you like, Children are much easier to manage than adults…”  
   
“When was the last time you babysat, Sherlock?”  
   
“I’ve never been asked…”  
   
“Surprise, surprise.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Sherlock, my darling, I love you and for all your admirable qualities, I wouldn’t have thought ‘child friendly’ is among the list of them…”  
   
“You’ll be eating your words pretty soon…”  
   
He promised, swaying closer to me and glaring through a smirk.  
   
“Oh will I?”  
   
I counteracted. Smiling flirtingly back at him.  
   
   
   
~ ~ ~  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
And as it turns out, yes, yes I very much will.  
   
After Max woke up from the veritable sugar coma I had him under, me, him and Sherlock made a boat – if you can call the sofa moved away from the wall into the middle of the lounge, with a bed sheet tied to a broomstick, which was in turn wedged between the sofa cushions, so it stood upright, a boat – and subsequently played pirates all afternoon. Sherlock was Hook, fashioning a large coat hanger from under his sleeve, along with an eye patch, and, I’ve not a clue where he got it from, but, a big pirate hat with a feather. He spoke in the traditional ‘arrrggggggghhhh’ pirate manner, whilst, I, however, opted for a more subtle, scarf around the head, draw on a moustache, Captain Jack Sparrow type approach. Flouncing around in a waistcoat challenging hook to a swordfight to find where he was hiding the ‘treasure’ which consisted of the remainder of a few packets of crisps and some chocolate cookies. Max laughed and giggled wildly, with a scarf wrapped around his waist and an eye patch that was far too big for him, and spent more time as a necklace. I leapt up onto the back of the sofa, balancing on my feet, as I thrust my sword – an empty wrapping paper roll – into Sherlock throat.  
   
“Pray for Mercy, Hook! And tell me where the treasure is! Or I’ll slit your throat so wide you’ll be wearing your tongue for a necktie!!”  
   
I growled in an alarmingly bad pirate-y voice.  
   
Sherlock paused, swiping my arm away from his throat with his own, counteracting my attack with his own, with wildly over dramatic sweeps of his arm as he leapt up onto the sofa cushions to stand facing me.  
   
“Alas, pretty wench! I will not surrender my treasure to a girl!!”  
   
He snapped, waving his sword at me, to which I fenced him off as he parried towards me.  
   
“What do you say young skipper?” I yelped, turning to point my sword at Sherlock from behind Max, who pointed his weapons at him too. “What’s say we finish off this old scallywag? And keep the treasure for ourselves??...”  
   
Max giggled, as Sherlock smiled.  
   
“I think, that we need to… ATTACK!!!!!”  
   
Max cried, spinning around and throwing himself at me so I was crushed to the floor by his weight, feigning being fatally stabbed, I yelped and howled as I went down.  
   
“Betrayed! By my own crew! Oh what a way to die! I’m off to see Old Davy Jones…”  
I murmured, before choking and spluttering one last time, and throwing myself dramatically to the floor like a dying fish.  
Seeing that this caused Max to laugh helplessly.  
   
There was an onslaught of giggles I heard as I laid still and closed my eyes, one arm thrown over my head on the carpet. Max was wrenched from me and I heard Sherlock’s baritone pirate rumble shake the room.  
   
“WE did it Max! Me lad! The booty’s ours for the taking…”  
   
I peered one eye open to see Max hoisted onto Sherlock’s shoulders as they stood on board the ‘ship’ waving their swords in the air.  
   
I smiled seeing them playing together, and despite Sherlock’s shortcomings, he really was good with kids.  
   
“Avast! Master Max, I think I see a smile on her face, do we think she’s dead?”  
   
There was a bout of childish giggling from Max, and he stuttered a shaky “NO!” through his laughter, before I heard Sherlock speak again.  
   
“Ahhh! But there be one good way of telling if she be dead, or alive and that’s… to TICKLE!”  
   
I felt Sherlock’s long fingers scrabble at my belly before I burst into laughter, Max joined in too, still laughing as he tried to attack the ticklish spot under my arms, I laughed, and yelped and squirmed and thrashed around under their weight that pinned me to the floor.  
   
“I surrender! I SURRENDER!!!!!!”  
  
  
I squealed, squirming around as the tickling persisted. I could make out Sherlock and Max beaming down at me from where they sat on the floor.  
   
“The booty be yours!...”  
   
I claimed, gesturing to the small box we had used to store the ‘treasure’ in.  
   
“I be a charitable man, wench, what’s say we share the booty, in exchange for food and sustenance….”  
   
Sherlock bargained, peering out at me from under his eye patch. Blue eye gleaming and glinting at me like a polished coin.  
   
So, it was, that Red Handed Libby, Hook, and Young Master Max, sat against their makeshift ship, eating pepperoni pizza, drank Fanta, and watched Looney tunes. Overall, I think John was in for a shock when he came home tonight. A shock, and a messy flat…  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
~ ~ ~  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
Me and Sherlock stood side by side on the doorstep, having removed the pirate clothes, to wave goodbye to Chrissie as She carried Max’s sleeping little body into the back of a cab, Never mind the fact he still had chocolate on his cheek, flour in his hair, and a scribbled on pirate moustache on his face. Libby and Sherlock had enjoyed his company just as much as he did theirs.  
   
Chrissie gave one last wave, and Libby caught one last glimpse of Max’s sleeping face as the cab scurried off into the rush hour traffic in the cold night air.  
   
Me and Sherlock went back upstairs to put 221b to rights again. But as I moved to untie the scarf I had left around my waist, I was hoisted onto the sofa with him, sat to straddle his lap as he held my waist. We had tipped the sofa so that it was facing the ceiling with the underside facing the door. I untangled the bed sheet from above Sherlock’s head, and threw it to the side. Allowing me a better view of my fiancé, who smiled at me eagerly.  
   
“Hello Wife..”  
   
He purred, easily leaning forwards and placing his lips hotly onto mine, giving me a sweet but quick kiss.  
   
I smiled as he pulled back, my hands cupping his neck.  
   
“Hello.”  
   
I spoke, warily, feeling tiredness from an exhausting day wash over my body. Nevertheless, I leaned forwards and gave him a kiss like the one he had just given me, short but sweet.  
   
“I think we did a good job today. Max certainly seemed entertained…”  
   
Sherlock smiled. “I only did a bit part. You had most of the day…”  
   
“Still. I think we can add ‘Child friendly’ to your list of qualities…”  
   
He hummed an affirmative, hands sliding down my back to rest on my bum, it’s like his hands were magnetised to touch me there. He did once mention once, that I had the nicest arse he had ever to see.  
   
“Along with good sense of humour…”  
   
“Ugh. I knew you were just angling to make a ‘booty’ joke sooner or later…”  
   
“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr me hearty.”  
   
He growled, grabbing my ass and squeezing me closer to him.  
   
“We could also add that I happen to have a thing for women with facial hair to the list…”  
   
He joked, running a finger over the small smudge of a moustache that was left on my upper lip.  
   
“I happen to think I’d look lovely with a moustache…”  
   
“Oh quite lovely…”  
   
“In fact I may set about growing one just to please you…”  
   
“Good. It would please me, it would please me a lot…”  
I smiled again, leaning forward and kissing him soundly on the lips.  
   
“Just think….”  
   
He murmured, shifting his hips forwards a bit, no doubt he had a ‘sword’ stuck behind his back.  
   
“..We may have to entertain our kids like that one day. Think you can handle it?”  
   
I smiled.  
   
“Bring it on is what I say… Plus if we have kids, you know you’re going to have to deal with a whole lot more than facial hair on me…”  
   
“Pray tell what these awful symptoms you speak of…are”  
   
“Weight gain. Irritability. Hysteria. Mood swings. Abundant Horny-ness. Back pains. Ankle swelling…”  
   
“Wait, wait. Abundant Horny-ness? That I could handle….”  
   
He smirked dirtily.  
   
“Hold up Holmes. I want to be bound in Holy Matrimony before we even think about pro-creating..”  
   
“Why?”  
   
Sherlock asked, deflated, if you’ll pardon the pun, I took the wind out of his sails slightly…  
   
“Because that way when I’m pregnant and fat and disgusting, you’re obligated to have sex with me. ….A, sort of… mercy fuck… if you will...”  
   
“Darling, you could never be fat and disgusting…”  
   
“You’ll be eating your words when you see me with baby weight….”  
   
“It’s not about the weight, you’d be gorgeous at any size. And I hardly think we need any hindrances to our sex lives. We’re at it like rabbits half the time…”  
   
He smiled filthily.  
   
“And whose fault is that…?!”  
   
“Yours. You’re too damned attractive for me to think PG rated around you…”  
   
“Excuse me, Cassa - bloody – nova… Your insatiable sexual appetite doesn’t help…”  
   
“But when we do want a baby that shall come in handy, no harm, no foul…”  
   
“Mmmmmm, Ok. But if and when you do knock me up. You’ll be my little errand boy.”  
   
He placed another lingering kiss on my lips.  
   
“MMnnnnnmmm, deal!”  
   
“…and you’ll have to go out at all hours of the night to fetch me food….”  
   
“A small price to pay…”  
   
“…and you’ll have to rub my neck, or feet, or back if I get sore…”  
   
“Uh-huh…”  
   
“You’d be ok with all those things?”  
   
“Yes. Yes I would…”  
   
“Can I make a request?”  
   
“Go ahead...”  
   
“Let’s have _lots and lots_ of practice at making a baby beforehand, the, undress, rehearsal, if you like…”  
   
I was going to answer him, but quickly found his lips covered my own to prevent me from doing so, and I was hoisted off him and onto the sofa cushions.  
   
   
   
   
Insatiable, _indeed,_ Holmes.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


End file.
